


Can You Feel The Whole World Shaking?

by WalkOnThroughARedParade



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fucked up damaged babies finding salvation in each other basically, IT'S ALL A BIT WEIRD TBH, Incest, M/M, Multi, Polyamory, and exponentially more awkward now my housemate follows me on tumblr
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-28
Updated: 2014-09-28
Packaged: 2018-02-19 03:05:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,257
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2372216
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WalkOnThroughARedParade/pseuds/WalkOnThroughARedParade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>'For all his strength, for all his talent, for all his beauty Tommen will never be arrogant or ambitious or murderous or cruel. The only claim Jamie Lannister can make on him is the green in his eyes and the gold of his hair.<br/>Myrcella...<br/>Myrcella is hard in a way her mother was not.<br/>And Rickon Stark is alive.<br/>Rickon Stark is <i>alive</i>.'</p>
<p>Or: In which this should never have worked, they should never have been allowed to be this happy; but somehow, it did, and they are.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Can You Feel The Whole World Shaking?

They are not their parents.

(Tommen shouts it, _screams it_ , stands opposite Loras Tyrell and the judgment in his eyes and yells again and again that they are _not their parents_.)

Jaime and Cersei Lannister are dead; Jamie quite literally, run through by Nymeria Sand, Oberyn Martell’s daughter, and Cersei in mind, driven mad with the loss of her twin and lover, locked in a cell where she dreams of a world where her eldest son is still King, still breathing, always coming to visit ‘tomorrow’.

Tommen would weep for her if he didn’t hate her with his _bones_ ; Myrcella would always have been dry eyed, still stare at the woman whose only objection to her being shipped to Dorne was her lack of control, like she had been property stolen by Tyrion, as if she were a stranger and not the woman who gave birth to her. Myrcella forgot how not to hate Cersei Lannister when she was a child.

She has always been the harder hearted of the two.

But for all the snarled accusations of the broken, flowery knight, they are not their parents reborn. For all his strength, for all his talent, for all his beauty Tommen will never be arrogant or ambitious or murderous or cruel. The only claim Jamie Lannister can make on him is the green in his eyes and the gold of his hair; all else is Tommen’s, and Tommen’s alone. No one else is allowed the credit. Myrcella….Myrcella is hard in a way her mother was not, and yet still far more caring than Cersei ever was. She is not jealous, she does not claw savagely toward the things she wants, she does not care about the ugly iron chair Tommen manages to sit so easily upon. She is beautiful but in a savage, almost Stark way, her lovely face crossed by a scar earnt through the scheming of others, as if watching her mother and then hearing rumours of her downfall had not been enough to stop her ever planning and plotting so long as she lived.

Their parents gave them their looks but gave them _nothing else_ , and they will attest to that until their last days.

(Myrcella lets Margaery plait her hair, lets her dress her and sit in silence and look at her like she is a lioness who has not eaten for days, and only says _we are not our parents_.)

They are not their parents.

Tommen lets Myrcella lead him into a kiss, smiles when she sighs against his mouth, and holds her hips so very gently, and they are not their parents; not even when the Tyrell heirs catch them curled together, little lions trading secret kisses.

-

Tommen fights.

While Myrcella, upon her return to Kings Landing, looks upon her beautiful little brother and knows immediately _this is what I want_ , decides from the moment their eyes meet that she will have him and never be told no, Tommen fights. He fights the way locking eyes with her feels like puzzle pieces connecting in his chest, fights the urge to trace the scar on the face, the swell of her lips, the curve of her breast. He has loved boys and girls, the former more than the later, and has trained himself to ignore the murmurs, to not care what people think of his sexual preferences so long as he is still the King they deserve, but the terror of becoming what his mother was, what his true father was, what they always whispered he would become makes him care about this.

He longs for Myrcella like he’s never longed for anyone, aches to touch her, to have her, and so runs at every opportunity, so very, _very_ scared of the ways in which he could ruin her.

Myrcella follows calmly.

Her little brother has always been so gentle, so brave and bright but so very scared, and she will help him through this as she helped him through all manner of other challenges when they were children.

And she will have what she wants.

-

This winter has passed its worst days, been chased away by Danaerys and her dragons - she did not want Westeros, in the end, only Jon Snow and the promise that her people would be cared for - and now only brings the coldest frost and slush that seeps through even the best-made boots, cold that creeps into the Red Keep but no longer brings with it the sweating, burning sickness that slew over a hundred of the weakest and poorest before measures were taken to fight it.

The cold still calls for fire and furs, however; and Myrcella creeps into Tommen’s bedchamber swathed in the later, clutched close to her chest. A pale shoulder peeks out from beneath her coverings, calls to him when she stops beside his chair at the fireplace; and his eyes linger on the exposed flesh before shifting to her face.

He is so frightened, her sweet little brother, and she reaches out to hold the side of his face, gentle like he would hers were their positions reversed.

“Am I our mother, Tommen?” His protests are on his lips before she even finishes saying his name, avid _no_ s and _how could you ever think you’re like her?_ s. They spill from him in a flood, and she stops them with her fingertips, lightly pressed to his mouth.

“So wanting you the way I do doesn’t make me our mother? Doesn’t make me unnatural or monstrous?” His expression breaks, and she caresses his cheek with her knuckles, soft.

“You are not him, little brother. You have never _been_ him, never will be him. This will not change that.” It does not matter who she means, Jamie or Joffrey, the man who would have torn Westeros apart for his sister or the boy who would have put a dozen crossbow bolts through his given half the chance; Tommen fears them both, like they’re always a step behind him, waiting to take control of his body.

Her sweet little brother is so very frightened; and she is so very determined.

The furs pool at her feet, and Tommen is helpless to the way his eyes devour her naked skin, stops breathing and trembles ever so slightly in his chair. Myrcella catches his hand, strokes the back with her knuckles and then places it over her breast, her heart, holding his eyes, the mirror of hers but so _scared_.

“We are not our parents, Tommen. Nor are you Joffrey. The Targaryans wed brother and sister for three hundred years, and no one condemns them.” His voice is soft as his eyes, but he does not pull his hand away from where she clutches it tightly to her skin.

“We are not Targaryans.” He states, and her heart breaks for him, her gentle baby brother who she loves too much and in ways thought unacceptable, breaks for the bitterness in his voice.

“No,” She agrees, slides his hand up to tangle into her unbound hair, moves to take his face in her hands and breath words against his mouth.

“But we are not our parents, either. And I will not let us be denied the things we want because of their mistakes.” His eyes slide shut the second before she kisses him, but he kisses her back, tightens his fingers in her hair; and she sighs against his mouth as she coaxes him to his feet, toward the bed.

“Keep me warm?” She asks, murmurs against his mouth, licks into the backs of his teeth, bites into the plush of his bottom lip. He lets her push his shirt over his head, nods wordlessly; and she kisses away the tears on his cheeks with murmured words of comfort.

When she guides him inside her, it feels like she had been waiting for him all her life, like she is finally whole, a space she didn’t even realise was there finally filled by him; and he gasps into the crease of her neck, shudders and murmurs _Cella_ so softly she could cry.

His tears stop, and when they are finished, both coated lightly with sweat and breathing heavily, lazy and quiet with their orgasms, he gathers her close to his broad chest, hides his face in her hair.

“We are not our parents.” He whispers, pleads; and she nods, strokes his arm and his back and kisses over his heart.

“We are not them. We are ourselves; and we will be better than they ever were.” His hold on her tightens, and then he ducks his head to kiss her lips, initiating contact for the first time, quivering with the weight of the gesture like he is a virgin touching a girl for the first time.

The hand he slips back between her thighs reminds her he is very much not.

-

Myrcella does not get jealous.

She has seen jealousy destroy people, and has no reason to be jealous; Tommen loves her, even with Loras Tyrell breathing down his neck and Margaery wincing at him in sympathy, the woman who divorced him for another woman looking at him like he is unwell. He raises Myrcella’s hands to his face each morning, kisses the backs so sweetly and breathes in the scent of her skin before kissing her lips and walking to breakfast with her. At night he pleasures her with his hands, his mouth, every way he knows how to until she is like melted wax beneath his touch, can only reach for him so he at last buries himself inside her, so at last they are again whole, wrapped up entirely in each other and can come together, he for the first time, she for the third, fourth, fifth on the days that run him ragged, when he needs her to cry out for him loud enough that the entire Red Keep hears her, knows she’s his, he’s hers, they are each others.

He loses his cares for who knows when Loras and Margaery find out.

He is surprised - though she was not - that as a good King, no one but for Loras and his sister blinks twice at the revelation. No one cares if you’re fucking your sister so long as they’re fed and clothed and relatively happy; and the small folk love him enough to rationalise it away, remembering for Tommen and Myrcella that the Targaryans married brother to sister for centuries where they could not seem to recall such a fact for their disgraced parents.

(“We are not Targaryans.” Tommen whispers, parted lips shiny with her come and his where he’d eaten it out of her, and she touches his mouth and smiles softly.

“No. We are better than them.”)

They are happy, and he loves her, and Myrcella does not get jealous, because jealousy is poisonous.

Until she does.

-

Rickon Stark is alive.

Rickon Stark is _alive_ , is a man grown, nineteen years old and as handsome as his brother was, pale blue eyes and red hair. He is alive and he is wild, wild as the Direwolf at his side and the Wildlings at his back; and Tommen invites him into the throne room of the Red Keep, meets him alone and with his crown left behind in his chambers. Myrcella begs to stay with him, can suddenly see him dead on the marble floor, Shaggydog’s mouth stained red with his blood, Rickon Stark’s mouth set in a cruel and unforgiving line as he looks down upon his corpse, but he refuses.

He kisses her soft, reminds her to drink the tea that will stop her conceiving an incest-born Lannister with a one-in-three chance of being another monster, and then leaves her standing in the Small Council chamber, her heart ready to break.

Arianne and Margaery hold her while she waits, the Princess of Dorne and her lover and chief advisor forgetting for an hour their views on her love for Tommen in favour of keeping her calm and in a single piece; and Tommen leaves the throne room three hours later, tired and looking like his hands have gone through his hair several times, but smiling and perfectly, _gloriously_ alive.

He holds her when she runs to him, and when they come together at night he is especially attentive, especially gentle, until she could burst with how precious she feels, how adored.

Tommen holds her so close to him when they are finished, when she is alight and smiling and drifting toward sleep, and he murmurs softly into her ear.

“Rickon is going to stay for a while; until Winterfell is rebuilt, maybe longer.”

Myrcella’s smile fades.

She hides it in the palm of his hand, kisses there softly, and replies with forced ease, with a nonchalance that is the farthest thing from natural.

“I am glad things went so well.” He laughs softly, buries it in the back of her shoulder; and something in her chest goes cold.

-

Here is something Myrcella never considered; Rickon Stark can give Tommen something she cannot.

A challenge.

Loving her is, of course, a challenge every single day, another emphatic declaration that they are not their parents reborn, as the Lords and Ladies of the court sometimes murmur.

But she is not the challenge Rickon Stark is; does not argue, does not compete with him. She loves him too well, is too similar to Tommen to ever fight with him the way Rickon does, and her talents have always lain in matters of state rather than with the sword, so she could not spar with him even if she wished to.

(She asks Tommen to teach her how to use a bow, how to defend herself with a knife, and their success is limited. She learns, learns fast and well, but Tommen seemingly always has his hands on her as he teaches, and the contact distracts them both, until he presses her against a half-hidden corner, hitches her legs up around his hips with her small clothes caught around a slim ankle, gasps praise against her throat as he slides into her.

They are only ever caught once, and only Myrcella knows of it; meets Rickon's eyes over Tommen’s shoulder as he fucks her, watches the thing that has been living in her chest slide into his eyes.

She bares her throat to him, a wordless challenge, _he is mine; what do you intend to do about it?_

And Rickon Stark looks at Tommen when he makes a soft, desperate noise against her with an emotion that almost breaks her heart, before leaving.)

Rickon Stark hunts with him, argues with him about decisions made for the North, drives him to pacing in front of his bed, nearly ranting about the Stark boy who makes him question everything-

"Everything?" Myrcella asks; and he blinks at her in surprise before moving to kneel in front of her, taking her face in his hands so gently.

"Not everything." He promises, quiet; and a smile Myrcella has grown used to being the only source of spreads across his face, soft and wondering and _aching_ with sincerity.

"He doesn't even care. About us, I mean, that I love you. He says the Free Folk marry brother to sister, that the mere act of fighting it at first shows we're not the monsters mother and father were. It's so different, so _refreshing._ " He drops to lay on the bed, eyes slipping shut, so relaxed and content; and Myrcella stares at him, stares at her beautiful baby brother as he thinks about another.

Myrcella does not get jealous, but jealousy lives in her chest every day that she sees Rickon Stark walking the halls of the Red Keep, every time he looks at her with jealousy lingering in those pale eyes, every day that she watches her brother, her lover, sole owner of her heart slide further and further into being in love with the other man.

She has never been able to deny Tommen anything.

If he asks for this, can she really say no?

-

He does not ask.

Tommen watches Rickon, feels the warmth growing in his chest, coiling lower, feels breathless and turned about and like he could _burst_ for wanting him, but he does not ask.

He dreams of Rickon while Myrcella lays awake beside him - and he knows she does, sees the circles beneath her eyes, sees the way she looks at Rickon, the way she looks at both of them - and wakes up longing, _burning_ for him.

And the guilt of it will kill him, he's sure.

He refocuses his attentions on Myrcella, buries himself inside her like absolution hides in her cunt, fingers _tongue_ cock, presses into her until she screams his name. He pins her wrists and bites at the soft, pale column of her throat, teaches her to ride him, cant her hips just so, push him down and _take_ , teaches her how to use her mouth on him; gives her everything she needs to claim him, shout _this is mine_ through the moans and cries she pulls from his throat, make him believe it.

And he meets Rickon in the Kings Wood in the morning, meets his eyes, basks in the savage twist to his grin, and he _hates himself._

Tommen does not bother asking for the punishment of the Gods; if they gave a fuck about infidelity they would have struck down Robert Baratheon years before Tommen had been born.

But he looks at Myrcella, who loves him so fiercely, who can take him apart with her hands and feels like the other half of his soul; and he looks at Rickon, who feels like a piece he never even knew he was missing, who he would let destroy him utterly if it made him happy-

And he runs to the Gods Wood and he _cries._

He curses whoever let him love two people so deeply, curses them for not even giving him the ability to choose, cries and shouts and _begs_ and Rickon comes for him.

Tommen refuses to ask Myrcella for this, refuses to hurt her like that, but Rickon grips him gently by the arms and asks what he can do and Tommen-

Kisses him.

Melts into him when Rickon kisses him back, because it feels like coming home, like he has been drowning and Rickon is air, feels like _dying_ and when Rickon pushes his shirt over his head he lets him and lets him and lets him and _Myrcella._

He catches Rickon's hands as they just finish pulling loose the laces on his breeches and sobs against his mouth because _Myrcella._

It is one thing to have kissed Rickon, to have let him run his hands across his skin, relished it, _loved_ it; but it would be another completely to let him fuck him in the Gods Wood, to let him have a part of him that has been only Myrcella’s for almost five years.

Rickon holds him while he cries, while he sobs his sister’s name, sobs his constant longing for Rickon, the self-loathing that has grown in his chest every day that he has been in love with two people, unable to be with one without wanting the other, sobs that he wants to _die, death would be kinder than this_.

Rickon catches his chin in his hand, lifts it so Tommen has to look at him, tears sticky on his cheeks, and speaks seriously to him.

“You do _not_ want to die. And we will find a way to fix this.” He stares back at the Stark boy, and feels his heart break.

“I cannot hurt her.” He whispers; and Rickon nods, but kisses him anyway, presses him down onto the grass until the shaking and crying stops and Tommen kisses him back almost absently, forgets, for a moment, everything except the slide of Rickon’s tongue in his mouth, the softness of his lips, the taste of him.

-

Guilt and despair are like living things on his face when he comes to her that night, and she sets her book aside before crossing her hands neatly in her lap.

“Did you let him fuck you, Tommen?” He trembles with the question, rushes from the doorway to her feet and kneels there, burying his face in her lap while Rickon steps into the doorway, his face kept carefully blank.

She recognises the protective instinct as equal to her own, and wants to laugh. Does this boy, this _child_ honestly think she could ever hurt Tommen? He could tell her that every morning for the last month, when she thought him hunting, he’d really been rolling over and letting Rickon fuck him until he was screaming, and she’d still kiss his lips and forgive him, tell him she loved him and did not blame him for it.

_Please_ , she suddenly finds herself praying.

_Please let it have only been once. It will break my heart if it’s happened at all, but please let it have only been once. Please don’t let him have been lying to me._

Tommen’s eyes are huge and green and wet, and he shakes his head avidly, catching her hands and raising them to his mouth.

“No, _no_ , Cella I’d never hurt you like that. Please, I love you, I’d never do that to you.” She turns her hands in his grip, caressing his cheeks with her thumbs and catching the stickiness of old tears there. The pressure on her heart has lessened, is no longer stealing breaths from her, but the issue remains; there are tears on Tommen’s cheeks, his eyes are red, and if he has not been unfaithful then why is he crying, and why is Rickon Stark watching him with a kind of tenderness that makes possessiveness flare in her chest?

She studies his face, studies the face of the Stark boy who has managed to turn her into something she did not want to be, and then looks back at her little brother again.

“Then why have you been crying, Tommen?” She caresses his face again, and ducks down enough kiss his forehead softly.

“I am not angry with you. If you tell me you’ve not had sex with him I believe you, just tell me why you’ve been crying.” He makes a soft, hurt noise; and Myrcella wraps her arms around him, so he can whisper his response into the side of her neck.

“Because I _want him_. I love you but I want him as well, and I don’t know how to _stop_. I hate myself for it, but I d-don’t know how, and- and I kissed him. I k-kissed him, and l-let him kiss m-me, and I liked it. I’m s- I’m s- _sorry, Cella_.” She can feel when he starts to cry again, tears soaking the side of her throat and the shoulder of her shift; and she cards her fingers through his hair, watching the boy he wants so much it reduces him to tears.

And she laughs, short and sharply, eyes shutting while she rests her cheek against the side of his head.

Tommen stiffens against her, cries a little harder, and she strokes his back gently.

“Oh you sweet, stupid boy. What have I done to make you think I’d be so angry at you just because you _kissed_ him?”  Tommen pulls away, stares at her; and she strokes the seemingly endless tears from his face before looking at the boy he’s in love with.

“Rickon Stark come into the room properly and close the door behind you.” For a brief moment hostility radiates off him, and he looks like he’s going to argue, like he might steal Tommen from her arms and run away with him; but then he does as he is asked, approaching while Myrcella coaxes Tommen to his feet, plays with the ties of his shirt. She glances back at Rickon, and then at Tommen.

His eyes are still wet, the tears on his cheeks silent, confused as he watches her; and she sighs as she rests a hand over his heart.

“Rickon, please stop my brother from crying.” The youngest Stark frowns at her, watches her step away from Tommen and settle back in her window seat, but obediently closes the distance between them, gently holds Tommen’s neck and strokes away the tears on his face.

He leans in slightly, murmurs quietly against his cheek; and Myrcella snaps her book shut with a sigh, dropping it onto the cushion beside her.

“Not like _that_. _Kiss him_.” Rickon jerks back and stares at her, the hostility returned; and she pushes to her feet, approaching them but keeping her eyes on Rickon, chin raised, radiating defiance. She can feel Tommen’s confusion, feel his eyes on the side of her face, but she ignores him in favour of taking Rickon’s chin in her hand.

She studies him closely, and then speaks carefully, making sure her words are clear.

“For this to work, compromise is required. Being hostile only hurts you and him.” Tommen reaches out for her, a hand that had settled on Rickon’s hip only a moment ago catching in her shift; and she pulls Rickon down to her, kisses his mouth _hard._

He takes less than a second to make his choice, and kisses her back, releasing Tommen in favour of sliding fingers into her hair, pushing her back against the wall behind her and pushing his tongue into her mouth.

His kiss is hard, vicious, biting; defiant even as he grips her waist, drawing blood when he catches her bottom lip between his teeth, pulling back to stare down at her, breathing ragged.

Myrcella licks the blood from her bottom lip, mouth quirking into the barest smirk as she looks up at Rickon; and she keeps fingers threaded through the back of his hair when she turns to Tommen, holding out a hand for him and studying the way his eyes have gone dark with longing.

He goes without a word; and Myrcella catches Tommen in a kiss that’s immediately desperate, his hands sliding over her hips, grasping at her shift as he licks the taste of blood out of her mouth. She presses back against him, gently takes a hold of his chin and chases his tongue back into his mouth until he whines softly, hips jerking toward hers; at which moment she pulls away, turns him with her grip on his chin so he reaches blindly for Rickon and they fall into each other, grasping hands and twin gasps when they both taste her in the other’s mouth.

Myrcella takes a moment for herself, to catch her breath, and touches her mouth to the back of her hand thoughtfully.

Compromise.

She reaches for the ties on Tommen’s shirt, presses against his back as she pulls them loose, and when Rickon drops to mouth along the newly exposed flesh she leads them both back, toward the bed.

Clothes are lost quickly, hands wander, and Myrcella drags her hands down the bare skin of Rickon’s back while he buries calloused fingers inside Tommen, fingers she wants inside herself, wants to see if they can reduce her almost to tears the way they have her brother.

Her fingertips catch on scars, and she kisses them softly, traces a line of pale, smooth tissue stretching from the top of his shoulder to the middle of his spine with her tongue.

“Shadowcat.” He offers quietly over his shoulder, twisting the three fingers he has inside Tommen so the boy stretched out before them cries out, spine arching; and she presses against his back, wraps an arm around his shoulders and watches him drag more sounds from her little brother.

“You’ll have to tell me that story, some time soon.” She breathes the words into his ear, lips brushing the shell, and then drops to lie beside Tommen when Rickon drags his fingers out of him, resting a hand on his chest and kissing him softly when he reaches for her.

Rickon slides into him with a ease that makes Myrcella remember the first time she laid with Tommen; and Tommen melts beneath him, gasps against his mouth but clings to Myrcella’s hand, stares at her with eyes blown black as she pushes up to rest a hand over Rickon’s tailbone, as if she can feel where they’re connected through him.

“Slowly,” She advises, thumb stroking circles into his skin.

“Make him chase it.” Tommen whines in protest, but Rickon does as she says, drags out of him and eases back in until Tommen’s legs tighten around him and he’s rolling his hips, fucking himself on Rickon and dragging blunt nails down his back, scoring red lines into his skin that Myrcella kisses softly.

“Now you can fuck him.” She allows; and watching them move together makes the heat between her legs increase, prompts her to almost thoughtlessly slide fingers inside of herself, moan softly and shift her hips into her own touch while Tommen cries out and arches under Rickon, while Rickon buries his face in the side of Tommen’s neck and moans, low and loud.

They both finish quickly, rocket through their orgasms and lay against each other for a long moment; before, the moment Rickon rolls off of Tommen, he surges up to press Myrcella back onto the bed, pushing her hand away from herself and dragging his mouth down her stomach before licking into her, groaning against her sex while she cries out, hands flying above her to grip the covers tightly.

Hands slide beneath her hips, tilt her so Tommen can better lick into her, and she sobs at the pressure of his tongue, eyes squeezed shut; and then gasps as his tongue flicks against her clit, spine arching and eyes flying open to stare at the canopy, lips parted. Myrcella rocks desperately down against his face, legs pushed up almost to her chest rather than draped over his shoulders as they usually would be, and when he pulls aways she cries out, reaches blindly for him in protest-

Only to jolt, mouth dropping open, eyes going wide at the drag of stubble across her, a new mouth closing on her clit while calloused fingers are buried inside her. Tommen kisses her, mouth soft, gentle, letting her taste herself on his tongue, and murmurs against her lips.

“He wanted to try.”

Rickon groans in agreement against her, curls his fingers and pushes his tongue inside of her alongside them; and she comes, head thrown back, sobbing his name while Tommen presses his face against the side of her throat so she can feel his smile.

Her head lolls to the side so she can watch Rickon sit up, suck the taste of her off his fingers; and when he ducks back down, lifting her legs over his shoulders, she drags Tommen into a kiss so that he can swallow the oversensitive mewl that slides from her lips.

-

They lie on either side of Tommen while he sleeps, Myrcella gently stroking her fingers through his hair while Rickon can’t seem to stop touching his skin, stroking his spine and his hips and the back of his neck. Tommen’s face is turned to Rickon, but he has an arm wrapped loosely around Myrcella’s waist; and they watch each other over his sleeping head, both thoughtful, both silent.

“I didn’t think you’d share him.” Rickon’s voice is a shock, and Myrcella realises that it’s the first time he’s spoken to her, the first time she’s heard his voice when he’s not shouting across a courtyard.

He sounds like Robb did, she reflects, remembering the Stark heir she’d fancied herself in love with as a child.

“He doesn’t belong to me. He never has, never will; I have always had to share him with the Seven Kingdoms. As fiercely as he may love me, he loves them as well.” She caresses the side of his face, and Rickon frowns at her; and so after a moment she sighs, props herself up on her elbows.

“You see my mother when you look at me.” She states; and he doesn’t deny it, prompting a slow, amused smile to spread across her face before she clarifies.

“You look at me, and you see Cersei Lannister; perhaps not as mad, perhaps not as ambitious, but Tommen told you how we first came together and now every time you see me you think _Cersei_ , always taking things as I want them.” Rickon just stares back at her, and after a moment her smile softens, and she glances down at Tommen, brushes some of his hair away from his face.

“He is so scared to want things for himself. He watched our parents and Robert and Joffrey nearly tear Westeros apart by letting themselves fall victim to the things they wanted, and so is always so scared that he might do the same. He never really cared what people thought of him, the whispers started when he turned fifteen and started off letting boys fuck him; what really frightened him when it came to his wanting me was the idea that he might be turning into Jaime or Joffrey, that wanting me and having me might be the first step toward ruining everything he has built. It is why you frighten him so much; not because he does not want to hurt me, though he doesn’t and I do believe that the guilt he felt was greatly to do with how much he loves me. Mostly he feared he’d been right to be so scared of letting himself have me; that he’d have you too, and either I’d tear the world apart in response or he’d forget the Seven Kingdoms in his pursuit of what he wanted, leave them to fall into ruin the way Robert nearly did.” Rickon frowns, and turns his eyes on the sleeping boy between them, catches his bottom lip with his thumb.

“Stupid boy.” He whispers, and Myrcella smiles softly.

“Loving him is not easy; you’ll learn that.” Rickon’s protest is sharp, his eyes narrowing quickly.

“I don’t-” Myrcella only needs a Look to silence him, and when he is quiet she carefully climbs over Tommen, pressing a fleeting kiss to his cheek on her way to straddle Rickon’s hips and arch an eyebrow down at him.

“You can’t lie to me, Rickon Stark. I know what loving Tommen looks like; I see it in the mirror every morning, written across my face. You _love_ him. If you didn’t you would not have gone to so much trouble to have him; you would not be so content with having to put up with me in order to do so.” Rickon’s eyes remain narrowed, but the hands he settles on her hips are gentle, and she can feel him harden beneath her.

“Who said I was putting up with you?” The defiance in his voice makes her smile, and she moves to rest over him, forearms resting either side of his head.

“I don’t expect you to love me the way you love him; I doubt it’s possible, and I know I can’t do so for you. But for this to work, for him to have what he wants, what he deserves, we need to get along, to at least respect each other and acknowledge that he loves us both.” Rickon stares back at her, studies her face; and then slides his fingers into her hair.

“I’ve never seen anyone look as happy as he does when he talks about you.” He offers quietly, a secret spoken into the space between them, and she smiles.

“I should think he looks the same way when he talks about you.”

Rickon helps her guide him inside of her, and Myrcella puts Tommen’s lessons to good use, rolling and snapping her hips while Rickon runs hands over her skin.

When they finish, when Rickon is spent inside her and she is lying on his chest, letting him stoke fingers through her hair and across her bare shoulders, she turns her face to find Tommen blinking sleepily at her; and he shuffles closer, buries his face in Rickon’s shoulder and hums when she drapes an arm across his back.

“Stop having sex without me.” His voice is muffled, soft, halfway back to sleep; and they both grin at him.

-

They will never love each other the way they love him.

Tommen can see it, feel it, in the possessive way Rickon wraps his arms around his waist, in the bruises Myrcella leaves on his collarbones, in brief glances when they pass one another some days, in arguments he has to walk out on. He knows there is no future in which Myrcella looks at Rickon the way she looks at him, in which Rickon kisses Myrcella the way he kisses him.

He sees it, acknowledges, accepts it with no small amount of reluctance.

But he sits on the Iron Throne, crown left to hang off the grip of a long-melted sword. Rickon sits on the steps before him, Shaggydog curled at his side. And Myrcella sits between the spread of Rickon’s legs, tiara set on top of her head, leaning against his chest.

They will never love each other like they love him; but Tommen and Myrcella are not their parents, and Rickon is not his, and they _do_ love him, and each other, to an extent.

And it’s enough.

**Author's Note:**

> I don't even know stop looking at me like that.


End file.
